


Fleeting

by orphan_account



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, launchshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8543467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Proton and Archer have a quiet, comfortable moment in eachother's company, for once.





	

The fleeting moments such as these never last, and Proton plans to indulge in every second until the hourglass shatters and they're back to routine. As if these occasions didn't happen, like they're faded pictures pinned to the dark recesses of Proton's brain. But the moments like these are brimming with warmth until he's forgotten the cold, in a night where he finally has a sufficient reason to not be asleep (but in a dream all the same); nights where Archer is present to erase the loneliness Proton pretends he doesn't possess. Just the two, alone and quiet but comfortably so, speaking in hushed voices as if anything louder--sharper--can shatter the serenity. 

The bedroom is dark and dimly lit by a lone nightlight--a beacon to offer warmth and protection from whatever goes bump in the night. A little star Proton insists he's fine without but has held onto for reasons beyond logic. A memento, perhaps. Just a comfort item. 

He lies on his back, heavy and rooted to the old mattress he has yet to replace. His eyes of turquoise and chrysocolla trace the valleys and grooves of the old ceiling, piecing together whatever ambiguous storied the patterns offer. It's similar to cloud gazing, in a way. 

Archer is beside him on his stomach, elbows buried into the bed and resting his head on his hands. He holds no interest in ceiling gazing or cloud gazing or anything of the sort; he's become so accustomed to ceilings during long nights of unrest that he'd prefer not to, thank you. Instead he's invested in the shadows dancing on their figures, and how they contrast and contort with what little movement they make. How they flicker over Proton's features when he tilts his head slightly and nods to Archer--a little more attention than Archer's entitled--to check if he's attuned to his rambles. 

And they speak of little things, trivial things, things that normal people speak of, but not quite. Of people and animals and beings somewhere in between. How's the weather or what happened last weekend. The answers remain lacking because they both are undeserving of simplicity, a foreign subject they can only pretend to understand. Nowadays simplicity was a luxury. But they've sold their souls to something of more complexity--something like darkness waiting behind the bedroom door, tapping on brittle wood. Waiting to whisk them back to their respective realities that weren't realities at all. It's a path they forged for themselves, built upon skeletons and ash, paved with blood they cut free from their own hands. It's a burden they built because they wanted, despite the option being irreversible. They know it is. 

Proton speaks with his hands and he does so often. It's a little quirk Archer has noticed for quite some time and has come to appreciate. It adds personality to electric words, he tells himself. Proton points and gestures, trying to relay something he's spotted on the popcorn ceiling. Something that births stories and imagination but is just dead static to Archer. 

Archer's enthralled by the waving hands and he can't resist but to catch one--entwining fingers and stitching the two together. Archer is cold and the cold trickles into Proton, freezing him. He no longer bothers with shapes in the enclosed beige sky. He brings Proton's hand to his lips, grazing his knuckles like cotton against sandstone--so gentle and tender it's almost astounding that's Archer of all people. 

Affections have been so unspoken between them, Proton had long forgotten the sensation, as it had been exiled to the back burner in his memory. He quiets then, mouth no longer running. Wildness tamed. He searches for a prediction of the next move like whatever comes next will mend or break him, and perhaps that is true. 

Archer jokes he likes Proton better this way. Silent. Proton has to disagree and he's prepared to spill such protest, but the flame is smothered out by lips on his--ice on fire. And when ice meets fire all that's left is a breathless sizzle, with stolen words that have been discarded. 

The kiss is transient just as everything else. Archer withdraws and steals back the dizzy warmth, leaving Proton both satisfied and yearning. The list of what Archer's stolen is quite numerous now: his words, his warmth, his heart. Proton would like very much to reclaim these items. Well, except one. One of the gems Archer can keep, and Proton can only pray he'll lock it up somewhere safe, behind glass and iron and steel. It would be a tragedy if Archer got reckless and dropped it. It's something fragile--a thin sliver of rubellite locked in a treasure box of flesh and bone. It's been tainted--dirtied by long years of wear--yet somehow Archer cherishes it. Which only leaves the question 'why' for Proton, but it's a mystery beyond him. That's fine. Some things are best unanswered. Archer's doing a splendid job of polishing the edges, anyways. The unveiled cordiality emits a faint, pulsating glow. 

Proton is half tempted to snatch up Archer's face in his hands and kiss him again, but he'll resist. Wouldn't wish to spoil the moment. Only Archer's hand lingers on Proton's cheek, brushing a lock of teal hair aside. It's tantalizing. It's unfair. It's gone. 

Archer properly lies down and rolls onto his side, distancing himself by turning his back to Proton. He mumbles something about needing to get some shut eye. He doesn't get much of that these days. But he'd like to. They both know he'd like to. And that's why Proton forfeits this little endeavor of theirs for the night, because Archer's needs should be prioritized above Proton's wants. Sleep is more important than whatever it is they may or may not have at the moment. 

But letting their little conclave fade is difficult for Proton. He struggles to contain the greedy and selfish person hiding inside of him, which begs for this specialty to not end. After all, it'll be gone tomorrow morning. Just another Polaroid image to add to the wall. Then it's back to the routine and the pretending he's grown to loathe, because then they're lacking in this closeness. It'll get shoved to the back of the shelf without a word from either of them.

But he chokes down his wishes for the night--for Archer. Maybe now would be a good time to close his eyes and rest, so he shifts into a position more comfortable. 

An inkling of an idea forms in the back of his mind and, due to his half-sleepy state, he gets a little daring and follows through. He scoots closer than what's typically permitted. Archer doesn't recoil (and no, not because he's asleep because he isn't; Proton knows damn well he isn't). And it goes from a little daring to a little bold, and Proton slips an arm across Archer's side to pull him close. 

Archer makes a brief amused sound, which is better than rejection. He takes Proton's hand in his and draws it to his lips, kissing the knuckles in a fond way that's so undeniably _Archer_. Proton braces himself for the cold to come when the fingers slip out of his like water. But they don't. Instead, Archer holds his hand like a treasure by his chest and heart and to Proton that's a pleasant surprise. 

He nestles closer, pressing his forehead to Archer's back, breathing a quiet sigh of contentment. He submits to exhaustion, a little more willing to let the fleeting moment take its leave.


End file.
